No lunch today.

No cafeteria.

No inmates, no doctors, no nurses.

No Arkham.

Just darkness and the echoing memory, the sound of a river, rushing through my head.

I suppose there's no sense in writing anymore. My therapy is over. But I can't stand the sight of your covers closed forever right now. Too many things closing forever when I don't want them to. Stay open for me a little longer.

Yesterday, it all started out so normal, as normal as it gets in the cuckoo's nest. A voice buzzing over the intercom woke us up in its usual scratchy voice, stinging our ears, dictating our movements – showers, pills, therapy, all in their usual order.

Jonathan and I were sitting in the Day Room with the other crazies, waiting for Dr. Quinzel to enter so Group could start. She wasn't usually this late. In fact, she wasn't ever late. But for some reason, 20 minutes past the designated start time, she still hadn't arrived. I asked Jonathan what he thought could possibly be up, but all he did was shrug. He seemed strangely tense and serious, like his smugness for all matters concerning Quinzel was gone, like he was standing on the edge of a knife. Finally, another doctor arrived, a Dr. Hawkins, a weak, short, elderly man who told us to gather 'round to start the meeting.

"Where's Dr. Quinzel?" one of the inmates called.

To the complete and utter amazement of all in the room, Dr. Hawkins told us that Dr. Quinzel was taking a leave of absence and that he would be taking over in her stead.

"When's she comin' back?"

"That information is not being disclosed at this time, and there will be no further discussion on the matter, thank you very much."

What followed was 30 minutes of uncontrollable twittering between all of the inmates about what possibly could have happened to Dr. Quinzel. Hawkins and the guards tried to quiet the lot, but by the time there was some semblance of order and Hawkins tried to begin the session, the first patient loudly lamented how dismal Hawkins' chest was compared to Quinzel's and that got everybody going again. Finally, at the two-hour mark, Hawkins declared that that was enough work for the day, and good job everyone, we were really making some progress. Everyone dispersed throughout the Day Room, back to their usual games or cards or vegetative states.

Jonathan was unusually tight-lipped. He walked past an inmate calling over to us to join a poker game and headed straight for the arts and crafts table, ignoring the insults the kook started slinging his way. I followed him not unlike a dog follows its master, even though I really would have liked to play cards. It never once occurred to me to join the game without him. Wherever he went, I followed. He navigated the asylum with all the confidence of a pilot in flight. I would have felt lost without him.

There was one lone occupant at the arts and crafts table, sitting there staring blankly and chewing on a dry craft sponge in the shape of a butterfly, meant for paint projects. Jonathan yanked it out of his mouth and threw it across the room. "Fetch," he said. The inmate stumbled after the sponge mindlessly, crying.

"Finally," Jonathan's body language seemed to say as he sat down at the table with authority and began searching, pushing the various crafts items the nurses allowed us to have out of his way, bits of poster board and cotton balls, watercolors and paintbrushes… no glitter, though. Glitter was dangerous. I wanted to speak up so badly, to ask him where Dr. Quinzel was and what was going on, but he was so intent, so deadly serious on his task that I didn't dare utter a sound. Finally Jonathan seemed to find what he was looking for, a square of white origami paper and a box of crayons. I was sitting across from him and he shoved the crayons in my direction without looking up at me. "Hand me your favorite color," he said. I placed a crayon in his hand and he put it onto the paper as though about to write with it, then paused. "Yellow, Tommy?" he said, disgusted, and tossed it over his shoulder. "Yellow is useless." Then he grabbed the crayon box, took out Blue, and began to write. I couldn't see what he writing. It was all upside-down to me anyway, and besides, Jonathan's script is really small and scraggly, like a seagull making scratch marks in the sand. Whatever he was writing, it was long, detailed, and seemed to take forever. He kept pausing to sharpen the crayon. Just when I thought that he was done (there was hardly any room left on the paper), he got a look on his face like he'd just had an idea, and whatever it was, it made him laugh to himself. He put the blue crayon back to the paper and appeared to be drawing something – I couldn't see what. Then to my deep surprise, he retrieved the discarded yellow crayon from the floor and wrote something brief. When he was finished, I opened my mouth to speak but he shushed me and began folding the paper with intent. When he was done he held up the product of his labor, a little white swan, the blue writing faintly showing through from the inside, like all its thoughts were trapped inside its head wanting to come out. Then, Jonathan stuffed the swan inside the pocket of the bright orange inmate pajamas we all had to wear, and refused to tell me what any of this was all about.

"Things are happening, Tommy," was all he would say. "And we're gonna be ready for them." Then he did something completely unexpected, something he had never done before. He clapped his hand on my shoulder, and left it there for a moment. Then he stared at me contemplatively and just shook his head. "Really, Tommy, yellow? Really?"

I didn't have an answer for that. I'm not sure I understood what the question was.

By the time it was Lights Out, I was so exhausted from all the excitement and the louder than usual yammering the other inmates had been carrying on all day, I passed out right away. I didn't even bother to sing "Hush, Little Baby" first. Maybe that's why it was an uneasy sleep, full of unsettling dreams I can't remember, one morphing into another, into another, until it morphed into the one that goes like this: I'm on the ground alone in the dark with a pistol pointed at my head. I look up and see the towering figure of Harvey Dent, back from the dead, looking just as handsome and gruesome as he ever did, back to finish the job he started. I try to call out for the Boss to help me, but my voice won't work, and the Boss is too far away to hear my thoughts. "Heads, you live," Dent says, raising a coin in his other hand, "tails, you die…" I see nothing in the dark except for a flash of silver spinning in the air longer than physically possible. And then suddenly, this dream, which is as familiar to me as rain, adds a new detail. As I'm sitting there watching the coin, I'm no longer me. I'm Jonathan. Then the dream resumes as usual, like a needle being replaced on a skipping record. The coin lands in Dent's palm and he gives it a glance, doesn't tell me what it says, only gives me a cruel little half-smile and squeezes the trigger –

I was awakened in a cold sweat by the horrible sound of the intercom screeching to life. This wasn't right. The intercom never sounded after Lights Out, not until the Morning Announcements, and it was way too early for that. They always turned the lights on throughout the cells before the intercom came on for the Morning Announcements, and it was still pitch black. Plus, I didn't feel like I'd been asleep very long.

"A-hem-hem-hem. Attention all Crazies, Whack jobs, Nutters, and Cuckoo Birds," the voice on the intercom sang, sounding much higher-pitched than usual. "Oh, and Puddin', too. Hi, Puddin'! As you all know, earlier today I decided to take a leave of absence. But I thought I'd stop by one last time to say my goodbyes and bring you this very special announcement: Batman is gone, I repeat, BATMAN IS GONE. I hereby declare on all of Arkham, nay, on all of Gotham City, OPEN SEASON!"

There was a loud buzz, echoing throughout the entire asylum – all the doors sprang open and the lights turned on.

"The security system is down. All restricted areas have been unsealed. It's all yours, Puddin'. Go to town!"

And with another screech of static, the intercom was turned off and went dead.

Instantly I heard sounds in the corridor of inmates rushing out of their rooms, guards yelling, sounds of violence and riot.

"So," Jonathan said, "the nut finally cracked." He hopped down from the top bunk and eyed the open doorway. Outside, inmates were rushing past and brawling in the hallway with guards. "Well," he said, smiling. "Shall we?"

I folded my hands behind my head and leaned back on my pillow. "You go on ahead, if you want," I said. "I'm waiting for someone."

Jonathan cocked an eyebrow at me. "You're waiting. For someone." He sighed, and rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses used to rest when he was a doctor. "Tommy, do you have a play date arranged for this hour you didn't tell me about or something? Who the HELL could you possibly be waiting for?"

I stared at him like he was crazy. "Who else?" I said. "The Boss."

"The Boss…" he said, confused for a second. Then realization dawned on his face. "Your boss? The Joker? Tommy, Tommy, THINK for a minute! Why would the Joker come to get YOU? You haven't seen him in years!"

"The Boss and I are close," I said. "Very close. He wouldn't leave without me."

"Oh my God, Tommy, THINK! Even if the Joker wanted to get you, how the hell would he know which room you're in?"

"The Boss knows everything. He always has a plan. You don't know him like I do. He's coming to get me."

Jonathan threw his hands up in exasperation. "You're fucking worse than I thought. You know what? Fine. I'll wait here for your precious clown to show up. You're in luck. The Solitary Wing is located to our left. From there, the only way to reach an exit is to pass through this corridor. If Joker tries to make an escape, you'll see him. Then you can yell at him, 'Take me with you!' just like in the Goddam movies." He sat down on the floor opposite me with his back against the wall and shrugged his shoulders toward the riot rampaging outside. "Didn't feel like going out in that mess yet anyway, not till it dies down."

We could hear the guards screaming things like "Oh God, the tear gas, it's fake! It's been switched!" and "Walkies are dead! Network's out! Can't call for backup!" If Quinzel had been planning something like this to get her pudding out, she'd certainly had the manpower to rig things in our favor. From the sound of it, the guards were fighting a losing battle.

Jonathan watched from his vantage point on the floor, amused. He told me the plan seemed so well executed there was no way Quinzel could have done it by herself. He theorized that the League of Shadows was back and had their hands in this mess. I had no idea what he was talking about (surely this was all the work of the Boss), and ignored the ruckus outside. I just stared at the cot above me, trying to contain my excitement. After all these years, we would finally be reunited, the Boss and me. Then we'd have the run of Gotham… Suddenly, I wondered if Jonathan would want to come with us, too. I didn't think so. He didn't seem like the type to take orders from anybody else. He was his own boss, I realized. I had no idea what that felt like… and I didn't want to. The thought terrified me.

Inmates kept streaming past our doorway to the right. At one point, Jonathan flinched, and I looked up. "What, what? Was it the Boss?" I said, excited.

Jonathan swallowed visibly. "No…"

"Who was it, then?"

"Doesn't matter. Didn't see me," was all he'd say.

Then, suddenly, we heard someone fighting their way to the left, against the rush of streaming inmates. "Out of my way, bozos!" a voice yelled. "Watch out! Coming through!"

Jonathan darted to the doorway and grabbed the figure as it tried to pass. In he pulled Dr. Quinzel, only she didn't look like herself anymore. In place of the yellow knot she usually had her hair tied into were two long pigtails, still dripping wet with red and black dye. Her white, starched doctor's coat was gone – instead she bore a red-and-black get-up that reminded me of the checkerboards out in the Day Room. Instead of her brown briefcase, she carried a black messenger bag strapped across her chest. Most striking of all was the white greasepaint that covered her face – her lips coated in a midnight black instead of their usual red.

"Going somewhere, Harleen?" Jonathan sneered, his fingers twisting her arm.

"Back off, Birdie!" Quinzel yelled. "You don't get to touch me anymore, remember? I found a guy who's ten times the man you are, Scrawny!"

Jonathan went to smack Quinzel upside the head, but she blocked him and kneed him in the groin. He went down, groaning on the floor.

I sprang to Jonathan's side, kneeling on the ground, and tried to help him when suddenly we all became aware of another figure standing in the doorway.

From the corner of my eye I spotted him.

It was the Boss.

He had come for me! He had come, just like I knew he would!

The elation I felt was indescribable. Jonathan looked absolutely shocked, even as he was still reeling on the floor in pain, and I felt a surge of triumph. For all his psychological genius and his ability to read people like a book, I knew something he didn't. I knew the Boss in a way he never would.

The Boss took a step toward me and leaned down a little, reached a hand out to help me up. I started to reach for him when suddenly he darted his hand to the right and grabbed Quinzel's waist, pulled her in close to him, and stuck his tongue down her throat.

It felt like someone had punched me in the gut. I was shell-shocked, frozen on the floor next to Jonathan, as incapacitated as he was.

When the Boss finally let her go, Quinzel squealed. "I got the stuff you wanted, Puddin'!" She began opening her bag excitedly, pulling out little jars of face paint and screwing off the lids.

"Good girl, Harley," he said. The Boss dug his fingers into the goo and began smearing it all over his face.

"I was so worried, Puddin'!" Quinzel sobbed. "You were taking so long to meet up I had to come after you!"

"Nothing to worry about, Pumpkin Pie," the Boss drawled in that alternately high-pitched voice of his. "I just had to wait for all the other heavies to vacate Solitary first. Last thing I need is some nutjob sneaking up on me at the last second ruining my glorious moment of escape. Have you seen some of those headcases?"

"Unfortunately, daily," Quinzel replied, and the two of them started to laugh. It sounded horrible. I felt dizzy, like I was going to vomit. Just as the Boss was putting the finishing touches on his makeup, I seemed to find my voice again.

"Boss," I said weakly. "It's me."

For the first time since he entered the room, the Boss seemed to realize someone else was in there. His head turned and trapped me in his gaze. He didn't speak.

"It's Schiff, Thomas Schiff. Remember me? Oh God, you probably don't recognize me because of my nose. My old roommate busted my nose and it grew back crooked, you see, but if you just picture it, here, running straight, you'll see that it's me, Thomas. Thomas Schiff."

"Thomas-Thomas Schiff Who?"

"I – I – I was on the firing squad with you when we tried to shoot the Mayor, I was wearing the Rachel Dawes pin, Harvey Dent kidnapped me and he flipped a coin and he held a pistol to my head and the Batman showed up and – and – and I almost died for you!" I was shaking and gasping for breath by the time I finished this one long sentence.

"Ohhhhhhhh," the Boss said, a look of sympathy and realization starting to dawn on his face.

Then he shrugged his shoulders and added, "Doesn't ring a bell!"

The two of them erupted into peals of laughter before the Boss turned to Quinzel and clapped her behind. "Well, that was good. I needed a laugh. You ready to go, toots?"

"Sure thing, Boss!" she squeaked, and together they ran out the door, down the now-empty corridor, laughter trailing behind them, echoing in my head long after they had disappeared and taken all my hopes and dreams, my very existence, with them.

My arms and legs had turned to gelatin. I crawled wobbly to the foot of my cot and pulled myself up onto the mattress, found the covers blindly with my fingers and pulled them over my head, shutting the world out.

"Tommy," Jonathan finally said. I could hear him getting to his feet, making noises like he was still in some pain. "Tommy, what are you doing? We're free, Tommy. Let's get the fuck out of here."

"Can't."

"What do you mean can't?" He pulled the covers off my head and tugged on my arm. "Let's go, already, Tommy!"

"I said I CAN'T!" I snapped, pulling my arm out of his grip.

"I don't understand."

"No, you don't understand. You don't know what it's like. Out there, without the Boss, I'm nothing. I don't exist. God, I remember the first time I saw his face. That larger-than-life image. There was a man with a plan. That's what I need. Someone with a face I can follow."

Jonathan said nothing for a moment. Just reached up to his bunk and pulled down his pillow. "Oh, how easily I seem to forget…" Jonathan said, reaching into the pillowcase and pulling something lumpy out. He turned away from me and tugged it over his head, then revealed his face to me. "You've never met Scarecrow."

I looked up at him in awe: Scarecrow. I had heard of Jonathan's criminal persona, but I had never seen him. He wore a face, a soulless terrifying face from the depths of nightmares. A face that commanded respect and authority.

Finally it dawned on me. My life wasn't over. Not yet. "You can be the Boss," I whispered.

Jonathan smiled through the seams in his mouth and held his hand out to me. "I can be the Boss."

I grasped it, and he pulled me up, set me free. "Where did you get it?" I wondered, touching his new face in awe.

"Remember that day I got the visitor, I told you we bribed a guard to smuggle something in? Well, it was that, along with this…" He pulled off his face and turned it inside out, revealed a small, hidden seam on the inside, and tore it open with his teeth. He held up the prize inside, a small, gray, unmarked spray canister, couldn't have been more than two inches.

"What's in it?"

"Fear toxin," Jonathan said. "Enough to dose one person. Just in case we run into any difficulties. Couldn't risk sneaking in anything larger. You see, Tommy, in here we're weak, powerless. But outside, I have whole storehouses full of fear toxin, enough to bring Gotham to its knees."

"I can still... I can still watch the world burn."

"You can watch the world scream."

I practically salivated at the thought. Jonathan tucked the canister into one of his pockets and pulled his face back on.

"Let's go."

I followed him halfway out the door, then stopped short. "Wait, I almost forgot!" I said running back to my bunk.

"What, you leave the oven on or something?"

I reached under my mattress and pulled out my journal, made sure the pencil was still stuck safely in its coils.

"Oh yeah, that notebook you're always scribbling in," Jonathan said, grabbing it from me. He flipped through a few pages, laughed lightly, and handed it back, shaking his head and muttering something about nonsensical gibberish. I have no idea what he was talking about. I tucked my shirt into my pants and dropped my journal down the back of my shirt for safekeeping. I didn't want to lose it, no matter what we faced. Jonathan looked thoroughly amused. "Okay, Shakespeare, you ready to go?"

I was.

Ready for freedom.

Ready to make the world pay.